• Keith A. Kenel is an aging cyclist, amateur actor, failing triathlete, prolific poet, terrible singer and ponderer of ideas large and small.

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Tag Archives: North Carolina

Thirty Below

05 Tuesday Feb 2019

Posted by keithakenel in Poetry

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Cold, Improvise- Adapt- Overcome, Iowa, North Carolina, Perception, Temperate Zone, Weather

Whoa! Thirty below? I’ve thirty above,
round me are whiners in parkas and gloves.
Weepy, sad babies who think that it’s cold
when temperature is ice making woe.

Complaining ’bout frost on windshield of car,
look at me crooked as in shirtsleeves are.
Day’s sunny and calm, but babies complain;
hell, just yesterday rode home in the rain.

“Whether the weather,” is rhyme old as speech,
just look out-of-doors is what I beseech.
Assess the sunshine, the wind and the rain,
dress for conditions, for Lord’s sake use brain!

Brisk is not biting, though I will admit,
there’s some more inclined for weathering it.
Give me thirty-F over thirty-C,
(Zero/Eighty-six compare Metric’lly.)

There’s pease-porridge hot, and pease-porridge cold,
weather complaining  does quickly grow old.
Adapt, overcome! Why not improvise?
Apraise resources and gather supplies!

Great-googly-moogly, we’re in temp’rate zone!
You think great outdoors should not cause some moans?
We live on the Earth, not Heaven above,
so please stop bitchin’ and embrace the love!

The love of winter, of autumn and spring!
Whoa, you say summer? That’s whole diff’rent thing.
I can’t abide heat. Lord, give me AC!
Why are you looking askance at poor me?

 

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Friar, Friar: A “Measure for Measure” story.

13 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by keithakenel in Opinion

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"Measure For Measure", Blood Donation, Faith, North Carolina, Raleigh Little Theatre, RLT

I don’t do mystical much, which is a bit ironic as I’m playing Friar Peter, one of Shakespeare’s ubiquitous man-of-the-cloth father-figures, in Raleigh Little Theatre’s production of Measure For Measure. As I said, usually I don’t go for hocus-pocus explanations, but today I cast aside my unwillingness to suspend disbelief and just accepted that there are greater powers at work than mere mortals can ever know.

Reared Catholic, this friar-figure is pretty versed in that brand of Christianity and regardless of faith I know that thankfulness for the myriad blessings that flow our way never hurt anyone. Still, while I have  received blessings innumerable I no more credit God for said blessings than do I blame God for the slings and arrows that are cast my way. Things happen, sometimes I get lucky, sometimes not. Today I got lucky.

My day didn’t start lucky. I had grabbed two complimentary Measure For Measure preview tickets available to cast and crew with the intention of giving them to a coworker of limited means. A good thought, but one that proved irrelevant as preview night finds him working late, thus making him unavailable to attend. I tried another coworker but she too was unavailable that night and is planning to attend on a different date. Stymied in my original intent I placed the tickets in my wallet and took them along with me to my appointment at the Red Cross blood donation center with the idea that I might be able to distribute them to a worthy, unknown and in need theatre goer. At least, I think it was my idea, Friar Peter might have a different perspective.

I began giving blood in 1979 and continued to do so for about ten years, and then I couldn’t. My HIV status got in the way. The need for a safe blood supply is very important and around 1990 my blood got flagged because an HIV test came up “Indeterminant.”

Neither positive nor negative I headed to my physician who pronounced me HIV free, which was great, but the Red Cross, in their need to not only have but to appear to have a safe blood supply, declared me persona non grata in perpetuity. I, or at least my blood, wasn’t wanted. (They let me teach CPR and First Aid classes, no bogeyman there.) I lived an outcast and in the wake of 9/11 even begged the Red Cross to reconsider but they kindly but firmly told me no.

My lack of giving continued until 2015 when I moved to Florida. Florida, unlike most of the country, uses One Blood to collect blood, not the Red Cross. One Blood saw my negative HIV status and gladly took my blood over and over, a lovely circumstance that came to an end when I moved to North Carolina, a Red Cross state. Determined to remain a blood donor I petitioned the Red Cross via phone and email, explaining that I had been donating blood regularly for three years. Faced with a preponderance of evidence proving their lifetime Keith ban irrelevant they agreed to review my case. They did, I was clear, and I have been donating blood in North Carolina for the last year.

What does any of this have to do with providence, preview tickets and a higher power? Maybe nothing, but Deborah, one of the phlebotomist, (that’s blood sucker for those who don’t like four syllable words) is the woman who took my blood. Deborah, a tiny New York City born and bred puertorriqueña age mate, has taken my blood before. In fact, I had convinced her to audition for Measure For Measure but she got cold feet.

She also got thyroid cancer, but that was in the past. Deborah grabbed the next gal in line but after doing the initial iron count, checking blood pressure and other check-list items the would be donor was ineligible to give today so Deborah, who would not have otherwise taken my blood, did.

I had seen Deborah right after our auditions but not since so it was with great sadness that I learned that she is again having thyroid troubles and will be traveling back to NYC and Mount Sinai for further treatment. I asked her if two tickets to our play would help her feel better and her tear soaked eyes assured me they would.

I gave my tickets to a gal who dedicates her life to helping others, a woman I’m determined to bring with me to an audition and one who is grateful under literally life challenging circumstances. I don’t know about a higher power, but I know Deborah and I went full circle for our Measure For Measure and I couldn’t be happier about her and her mother being in our audience on Wednesday.

Oh! By the way? During donation I also learned that Deborah has a phobia-
about vampires! She related a recent dream of hers right out of 1972’s  blaxploitation film Blacula in which a dead ringer for film star Charles McCauley gave her something a bit deeper than a hickey.

Get it? She’s a bloodsucker with a fear of mythical bloodsuckers! I’m definitely calling Higher Power on that one.

Here’s to measuring up.

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Authoritative

13 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by keithakenel in Poetry, Theatre

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"Measure For Measure", Benjamin Tarlton, North Carolina, Raleigh Little Theatre, RLT

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Authoritative expert to masses did decree
how Bacchus’ children should wrangle theatrically.
Close quarter pugilists that were schooled by Lucio
slapped, raped and assaulted on a stage theatrical.

With great dedication and the finest of panache
measured our drill sergeant as he fought for zero cost.
Through combat mock and mighty and slap to bro from sis
Lucio demanded actors take but slightest risk.

Elbows flying skyward as he she runs in pursuit
soon upon her masses elbows stuck though resolute.
Everywhere are touches look extemporaneous
General maestro every punch choreographs.

Not just in the acting but in the instructing too
Lucio’s a master, many skills come shining through.
To watch him on the stage is experience that’s sweet
but as tactician mage his skill is fait accompli.

Snowy Ride

02 Wednesday Jan 2019

Posted by keithakenel in Bicycling, Poetry

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Bicycles, Bicycling, Crashing, Fitness Fun, Fun, North Carolina, Raleigh, Reedy Creek, Snow Ride!, Speed Kills, Umstead State Park

A glorious indiscretion occurred out in the snow, after miles of trudge, trudge decided to just let go. I thought it would be thrilling and I thought it would be fun, if I took my mountain bike out on a snowy wet run!

I had to go out anyway and attend to some chores so with my old blue mountain bike trails figured I’d explore. I chose location carefully, state park where cars go not, and on my old blue Cannondale exited parking lot.

Crossed over Highway Forty on dirt road called Reedy Creek, figured I would have some fun as through the cold snow I streaked. Fear streaking was but pipe-dream as through uphill snow I trudged, finally hit a steep descent and gained speed on my run.

“No brakes, no brakes!” my mantra as I gathered up some speed, know I wore a cocky smile as handled downhill with ease. With three miles behind me nother downhill did emerge, with first success under my belt I gave in to my urge. My urge was ever faster, and faster I surely went! As I went my mouth sang Eagles’ song bout lights turning red.

I tend to be cautious and seldom live life on the edge, but down the twisty fire-road you bet your ass I sped. I was in my glory and my face wore an impish grin, it’s said pride comes before a fall, I fell from pride of sin.

I hit a wide expanse of bridge that had much deeper snow, hoped I might stay upright till I lay face up, don’t-cha know. Suffered no lacerations, though my right wrist has deep bruise, I laughed as I straightened bars, kept on as had naught to lose.

My silly little story’s truthful from start to the end and knowing now what did not then I’d do it all again!

A glorious indiscretion occurred out in the snow, after miles of trudge, trudge decided to just let go. I thought it would be thrilling and I thought it would be fun, if I took my mountain bike out on a snowy wet run!

Hit and Run: A Joe Kleen Story

19 Wednesday Dec 2018

Posted by keithakenel in Fiction

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11/22/2018, Boston Marathon, Cary North Carolina, Dzhokhar A. Tsarnaev, Fear, First Responders, Joe Kleen, Love, Misty Kleen, North Carolina, Running, Tamerlan Tsarnaev, Terrorism, Thanksgiving

Just like the old days Misty upper body was bundled up with three long-sleeve tee-shirts and an insulated, wind-stopper Pearl Izumi jacket, while her lower half wore tights over capris. To complete the ensemble she’d wrapped a wind-stopper combination head band and ear warmer around her short white hair and one of her three upper body insulating layers had extra-long-sleeves with thumb cut-outs so she could keep her hands as toasty as the rest of her.

Joe on the other hand wore a single long-sleeve tee, a windbreaker, ratty old headband and baby blue, little-girl knit gloves bedazzled with peace signs.  Leaning in close to his wife of 32 years Joe asked, “What’s your goal time?”

Misty exhaled, drew her shoulders up and mock shivered. The time was 8:40 in the  morning and the sun had risen a full 100 minutes earlier. Thanksgiving 2018 had dawned bright, sunny, and, at least as far as Misty was concerned, cold. “Well, I’m not sure. Under forty-five? I’m really not feeling very well. How about you? Any predictions for the fight, Mr. T?”

“Is that T for Turkey?” Joe replied. “My goal is to finish in under an hour. Eight K in 60 minutes is right around five miles per hour. I can do that. I think!”

Misty smiled. “Sure you can, champ. And I heard this course is a little long so don’t get all bent out of shape if you don’t make it.”

“No worries. I’m afraid my go hurries days are over. So, what’s wrong? Cold?”

“As in do I have one or am I? The answer is yes; to both. It’s freezing out here!”

Joe looked at his wife and shook his head. “Not by a long-shot, hot-shot. Gotta be at least forty, probably closer to 45. You sure you don’t want to take off one of those layers?” he asked, emphasizing ‘sure.’

Misty grimaced and shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. I can always tie my jacket around my waist if I get too warm, not that that’s likely. You want to move up closer to the start? It looks like the kids are finishing their one-mile fun-run,” she declared, nodding at the little people who swam their way upstream, weaving through the thousand deep crowd waiting for the start of the Cary, North Carolina Turkey Trot race.

“Me?” Joe asked, eyebrows raised in incredulity. “No. As in. No. I belong in the back.”

“Okay,” Misty replied, winking at her husband. “That’s fine by me, but I’m going to scoot up some.”

Joe nodded, threw his arms open and hugged Misty as she stepped into his embrace. “Better hit podium finish for your age group if you don’t want to walk home,” he said, kissing his wife and returning her wink.

“Hmm. Interesting. Especially since I drove here and I’ll finish before you. Any wagers?”

“That you’ll finish before me? Sure. Like, how much, a hundred bucks?”

“Har, har, Joe, har, har. I’m going up front. Enjoy yourself!” she said, kissing him once more before winding through the crowd.

“I will!” Joe insisted to her retreating form. “See you at the finish.”

There was no National Anthem and the race start was split, with elite runners getting a two minute head start on the remaining 900 plus. Racers lumbered forward, walking until they passed beneath the inflatable finish-line marker and strode over the timing mat which cued them to start their engines and go! Crossing the threshold, Joe jogged, trying and failing to see his wife in the distance.

The beginning of the race meandered mostly downhill through residential streets. Joe peeled his jacket first, tying it around his waist by the sleeves. Next his ear-warmers came off and were placed in his left front sweatpants pocket, zippered shut to keep the two-decade old head-gear safe from loss. Lastly, long before he’d run half-a-mile, Joe plucked off his little girl gloves and zipped those into his right pants pocket. Passing mile-marker one Joe checked his old Timex Ironman triathlon watch. The stopwatch read 11:42, which was decidedly faster than he had feared. Joe bobbled his head back and forth, smiled and picked up the pace. “Just for a bit,” he promised himself under his breath.

The residential streets flowed along and near mile marker two the race went left onto divided boulevard, four-lane, Morrisville  Parkway. Morrisville Parkway was usually a busy road and the inner lane eastbound and outer lane returning toward the west were cordoned off with orange traffic cones to segregate the runners from the drivers. Joe turned left onto Morrisville Parkway and immediately felt his flesh crawl; something was just not right.

Whatever was bothering him it did not adversely affect his pace. At mile-marker two his stopwatch read 22:40 and Joe asked himself, “Did I just finish mile number two in less than eleven minutes? That can’t be right,” he added shaking his head and trudging onward.

The crowd was thin in the back third of the pack and Joe grimaced as he saw a woman step to the right of the orange cones in order to stride around a trio of walkie-talkies that presented a slowly moving barricade to progress. “Whoa,” he whispered to himself as a driver honked at the woman as she crowded the car’s space, “there’s no prize money for coming in six-hundred-sixty-sixth.”

The blaring horn brought Joe’s fears to the surface. ‘Really? Really?’ he asked of himself. ‘That’s what’s bothering you? That we’re sitting ducks running with our backs to traffic and that somebody’s going to plow into us on purpose? Lighten up, dude, we’re not in France, or, for that matter, Boston,’ he added, thinking of IED’s and the brothers Tsarnaev.

With racers running both east and west on their respective sides of the streets Joe mistakenly assumed that the race was a simple out-and-back, and with that assumption he scanned the oncoming throngs in search of his wife. At first his failure to see her mystified him but before another half-mile passed he saw that the runners were making a small loop off of Morrisville and he figured that Misty was far enough ahead of him to have entered the loop but not far enough ahead to have returned to Morrisville Parkway before he’d passed the little section. Passing mile marker three he again checked his watch: 33:14. “Oh, it is on!” he said aloud before adding quietly, “Come on legs, two more miles. Pain is temporary, glory immortal.”

Joe first heard the sirens just as he turned into the course’s side-loop, “Crap,” he said under his breath, “no!” Not sure if the deep bass horns and shrill soprano sirens were ahead or behind him, Joe lumbered on, shaking his head and offering a simple, heartfelt, “Please, God, no,” prayer to the God of his childhood. “Come on!” he hissed as he strode forward. The scurry of sirens grew and an ambulance honked its way through the throngs snaked out before it, inching forward to a gathering of first responders who surrounded, attended and protected a fallen runner. Joe hesitated, he’d once taught First Aid and CPR to his sons’ Scout Troop, but then he inhaled, nodded and moved forward. ‘I can add nothing here. The pros got this,’ his mind told his protesting soul.

Morrisville Parkway returned, and at mile four Joe again checked his watch. Forty-four minutes. “No way!” he exhaled, adding, “Feet don’t fail me now,” as he entered the last uphill stretch. He assured himself that Misty was safe, that she awaited him at the race finish; but no matter how confident his brain was his fear questioned this necessity. Joe struggled on, the accumulated miles, the uphill finish and valiant athletic effort culminating in a race time of 55:30, a time faster than his goal but slower than his dream. Misty called out to him.

“Wow,” she said, walking next to him as he labored to catch his breath, “you look spent. How’d you do?”

Joe nodded wordlessly, pointing forward and gulping air as he walked. Misty asked, “Did you see the woman who had the seizure? She was lying on the side of the road.”

Joe nodded in affirmation then shook his head in protest. “Walk. No talk,” he gasped. They walked, Joe recovered enough from his effort to ask, “How’d you do?”

“Terrible,” Misty replied. “Forty-seven-twenty. How about you?”

“Great. Fifty-five-thirty. You peel any of those layers on your run?”

“Nope. Not a one. Were you warm enough?” Misty countered.

“Perfect, except one shady section where the breeze was in my face; maybe 20 seconds? I was afraid the sirens were because a car had smashed into some runners. Glad to know it was a seizure and not a, well, an attack.”

“Did you think that too? Isn’t that terrible? The first thing we think of is that we’re under attack? Well, as Mom always said, ‘It’s a different world.’”

“It is,” Joe replied, taking his wife’s hand and kissing it. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving to you too,” Misty answered, squeezing her husband’s hand three times fast.

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Barely Cogent

19 Wednesday Dec 2018

Posted by keithakenel in Poetry

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Cary North Carolina, North Carolina, Raleigh, Snow, winter

I’ve the spirit of an infant
which you’ll notice from the instance
you’re subjected to my presence.
(Yes, my thoughts are barely cogent.)
I could go frolic on my street
fore there’s not a soul a stirring
I admit the thought’s alluring
but I fear it’s time for shov’ling.
Worry hours of snow showers
gonna lead to loss of power
as in comfy home I cower
sitting hour after hour.

Guess I’ll postpone my partaking
of the snow fueled merry-making
and instead of play I’m flinging
fluffy stuff from where car’s parking.
Into each life some work must fall
for some snowfall does not enthrall;
ice is slippery, may want to crawl:
Winter have mercy on us all.
Please wish me well and wish me luck,
here’s praying car does not get stuck,
if in snowdrift I am dead duck
would you be nice and call tow-truck?

Chomp, Chomp!

15 Thursday Nov 2018

Posted by keithakenel in Poetry

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Jason Alberty- "Theatre is my church", North Carolina, Peter Shaffer- "Equus", Raleigh, Raleigh Little Theatre, Rebecca Blum, William Shakespeare- "Measure For Measure"

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I am genuflecting
in my new Raleigh church:
Patron Dionysus?
Long for his holy work.
Rome was not assembled
in time of single day
understand the need for
groundwork for William’s play.

Our cast is a large one,
we number three dozen,
there’s not a single soul
in here that I’m knowing.
Spoke a bit to players
as we had fun and games;
early preparations
tend to make me feel lame.

Early in encounters
I don’t know how to act
(Which can be big problem
when Measure we’ll enact!)
But like Strang’s blind horses
I’m chomping at the bit,
understand the process;
long to get on with it!

Building needs foundation
if into clouds will soar
make cohesive fam’ly
with trust as sacred core.
Chomp, chomp on my bridle
chomp, chomp on changling bit,
I’m pawing at the start gate
to run fully commit.

We’ve foals in our paddock
and yearlings do abound,
know we must protect them
but I yearn for the sound
sound of all our hoof-beats
as we exit the gate,
with each player knowing
protected by cast-mates.

Patience is a virtue,
cohesiveness is learned,
my brain understands this
but long to run with herd.
I am genuflecting
in my new Raleigh church:
Patron Dionysus?
Long for his holy work.

Scrutinizing, Scribbling and Ciphering: Guess who’s a substitute teacher?

09 Friday Nov 2018

Posted by keithakenel in Opinion

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Challenge Schwinn, College Park Bicycles, North Carolina, North Carolina Substitute Teacher Certification, Northtowne Cycling and Fitness, Raleigh, Su Stone, Substitute Teaching, UMCP, Wake County

I began college in 1979. Nineteen-seventy-nine C.E., not B.C.E! (Hey, I’m old but I’m not older than the Dead Sea Scrolls old.) My major was “Undecided” and for two-and-a-half years I worked as a waiter and took classes as I saw fit, sometimes attending school full-time, and sometimes part.

In the early nineteen-eighties in-state-tuition was cheap and I like learning, so I pecked away at the worms and feed my college courses cast before me and grew from a poussin to a poltroon. After two-and-a-half years as an Undecided I finally declared E.E. as my major, (That’s elementary education, not electronic engineering!) graduated from UMCP in spring of 1986 and landed a teaching job at East Side Elementary in Cobb County, Georgia just prior to Thanksgiving of that same year. Things did not go well.

I frequently say, “If ‘organization is the key to success,’ then I’m doomed to failure.” There’s a lot of great stuff rattling around in my brain, body and soul but being organized is not one of my strengths. I ended my teaching tenure soon after I’d begun when I was offered a full-time job at a bicycle shop. I loved bikes, I love being a cycling evangelist, had worked at College Park Bikes a bit while attending classes in Maryland and then at two different Challenge Schwinn locations in suburban Atlanta, and figured this was a good path to take.

I got my first bike-shop gig in 1986 and have worked at bicycle shops in six states in the intervening thirty-two years. When we moved from Indianapolis to Cedar Rapids, Iowa I began working at Northtowne Cycling and Fitness (NTCF) and it was in Cedar Rapids where I began to regularly volunteer at Nixon, our sons’ elementary school.

I’d volunteered in my older son’s kindergarten class and a bit when he attended first grade in Indiana, but in Iowa I dove in and did a lot more. I did so much more that I toyed with the idea of becoming a substitute teacher.

Winters in Iowa are brutal and business at Northtowne is decidedly seasonal. As I was an hourly employee, NTCF  saw the wisdom in my proposal to cut my hours in the off season. A reduction in work hours opened the door for me to substitute teaching part-time, a door I gladly stepped through. I subbed exclusively at Nixon until our younger son joined his big brother in being bused to Harding Middle School. With our boys taking the big cheese to school I was freed from the responsibility of getting them to and from.

While I floundered as a “real” teacher I flourished as a sub. Connecting, explaining, empathizing, demonstrating and “selling” come naturally to me, while planning, note-taking and documentation make me want to go roll up in the fetal position and suck my thumb. I did good as a sub along with doing damn well and I enjoyed it, especially in the elementary school special education classrooms where I became a regular. Subbing part-time was great until we moved to Florida when I stopped.

Having left Florida a year ago I’ve decided to dive back in and sub part-time, and part of teaching is certification. North Carolina has abysmally low credentials requirements for substitute teachers (Read “low” as “none,” unless you count a high school diploma and a lack of felony conviction as credentials.) but Wake County requires subs to take a non-credit, non-graded Substitute Effective Teacher Training course. This required course consists of one eight hour instruction period, reviewing some teaching tips on line, writing a lesson plan and then presenting said lesson to our fellow students and instructor. The requirement is laughable but instruction from Su Stone is anything but.

Su is full of wisdom, experience and humor, three things that are needed if one is misfortunate enough to have me as a pupil. Su not only puts up with my ADHD, slightly autistic, OCD, dyslexic self, she incorporates my failed attempts to exhibit proper classroom behavior into her presentation. More importantly, Su has at least four three-semester-hour classes worth of material that she’s trying to disseminate in twelve hours of instruction. Impossible? Of course, but Su is organized and she is empowering.

As stated, I love interacting with elementary aged students, but formal lesson plans are my Waterloo. Su is explaining all the pedagogical imperatives for proper lesson plan preparation and I’m sinking lower and lower in my seat. No, no, no, no, no! This is why I sub! So I don’t have to write detailed lesson plans or contemplate the why’s of what I do so well- Infotain!

Thoughts about my lesson make me toss and turn the night of our classroom instruction. I teach hands-on lessons at my bike-store job and have made presentations before auditoriums filled with 500+ students. I am an excellent brush-fire fire-fighter but Su wants -shudder- structure!

My head spins as I fall asleep Saturday night but early Sunday morning the answer is obvious to me: Landscaping. Now, while I did work as a landscaper as a well as a waiter back in my undergraduate days, I am not thinking landscaping literally, but rather figuratively. I have decided to make my lesson plan an introduction to drawing landscapes and will incorporate a presentation of basic design elements and terms into my teacher led, I do, we do, you do simple drawing of a landscape. I think we’ll all have fun and maybe I can drop a little bird feed of my own at the feet of my fellow chickens.

Cluck, cluck, cluck, wish me luck!

Rules Of The Rain

08 Thursday Nov 2018

Posted by keithakenel in Bicycling, Opinion

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Tags

"The Struggle Is Real", Bicycles, Bicycles for Transportation, Bicycling, Cary North Carolina, Distracted Drivers, Lights, North Carolina, Riding In The Rain, Safety, Work

The weather forecast had a 100% chance of rain, but that didn’t stop me.

Basically, I have two rules for cycling in the rain; the first rule is more of a Pirate Law, a suggestion rather than an absolute. Rule number one is, “Don’t ride in a lightning storm.” That’s a pretty straightforward rule but sometimes my gung-ho, can-do attitude gets the better of me and I go ahead and ride under the crackle of electricity and the boom of thunder anyway. Life is all about risk versus reward and I can’t tell you how many hundreds of hours I’ve spent outdoors in thunder storms. Hey, I’m bold, not bright!

The second rule is, “Don’t cycle in the rain if the sun’s not up,” a rule to which I am far more likely to adhere than the Lightning Rule. Cycling in the dark and the rain is just too risky, and I know what a devil of a time I have seeing at night in the rain whether I’m driving my car or riding my bicycle. We can only ask so much of others and I think relying on people being able to see me under that much adversity is to accept a risk that far outweighs my reward of self-satisfaction for having endured hardship and utilized a Calorie burner rather than a fossil fuel hog for self-propulsion.

Around 8:45 a.m. on October 26, 2018  I’m setting out for work beneath a sky free of snap, crackle and pop and a sun that had risen over an hour earlier. Having both covered rule number one and having made arrangements with my wife to pick me up from work and tote me home if the wet stuff persisted past the end of my work-shift at 7:00 o’clock I set off in high spirits, knowing that I was ready to face the elements.

I’m ready to face the elements meant that I was ready for my nine plus mile jaunt through the constant but light rain in the cool but bearable forty-five degree Fahrenheit temperatures. I was ready, and so was my ride. While I am dressed garishly in a bright yellow raincoat and loud and proud chartreuse/neon-yellow gloves and shoe covers my bicycle has three front and three rear lights that can flash with great intensity in intermittent, semi-sporadic, nearly random non-patterns. Plus, I have another bright white flashing light on the front of my helmet and a red flasher for the back. If I had any more lumens I might be mistaken for a patrol car.

Wait, did I say might? I mean I was. Again.

A dozen year ago bold, bright flashing bike lights had just hit the scene and one evening as I cycled home on a dark, cold well after the sunset Iowa winter evening a car approached from the north as I cycled in that direction. As the car and I neared one another he  stopped.

Apparently, the driver saw flashing blue/white lights and, uncertain of what it was that was coming toward him, decided that pulling onto the shoulder and waiting for me to pass was the most prudent thing he could do. I waved as I passed and tried not to let my inner smirk show. I mean, come on! I’m just a dude on a bike heading home in the night.

Fast forward back to 2018 and it’s Yogi Berra’s, déjà vu all over again time as I slowly wind my way up a hill to a T-intersection and a big, bold, red octagon facing my way. A car approaches from my right, the driver sees my flashing front helmet and single 800 lumen bike light and, though I have a stop sign and he does not, freezes like, well, a deer in the headlights.

Dumbstruck, the septa or octogenarian stares at me as I reach the stop sign, signal my intent and turn. I’m glad he saw me, and I carry on convinced that I have taken adequate measures to ensure being seen by motorists as I meander through the residential streets of Cary, North Carolina. Of course, confidence isn’t always well placed as I had reinforced once again less than fifteen minutes later.

With less than a quarter mile to go I am winding through a neighborhood where youngsters are on their way to nearby Weatherstone Elementary. This time I have no stop sign as a black BMW SUV approaches his stop sign on Belrose Drive. It is obvious that the driver is distracted as he begins to roll through his stop sign and I hit my brakes hard as I simultaneously shine my flashing helmet light directly into the BMW’s windshield. Startled, the man hits his brake and stops, his vehicle halfway into the lane and I shake my head in disdain as I cycle by.

He passes me with a conciliatory, penitent wave a short time later and I shun him with my self-righteous silence. ‘Be careful!’ I silently shout at him as I pedal the last minute to work.

My day is uneventful and since the rain keeps customers away in droves I check with my coworkers and then slip away early, leaving at 5:30 rather than my scheduled 7:15 and cycle home in the continuing rain, lights blazing and eyes and mind on high alert.

Be careful out there, some folks are busy doing everything but driving as they sit behind their wheels.

Duel Dinosaurs

05 Monday Nov 2018

Posted by keithakenel in Bicycling, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Bicycling, Competition, North Carolina, Stupid Old Men, Umstead State Park, XY Behavior

Dual dinosaurs strutted and pawed,
one that was me proximate cause.
Couple of kids from the sixties
who’re out pursuing hobby.

I’m pedaling a bicycle
produced nineteen-ninety-seven,
which makes Silver Surfer jersey
only two years more elderly.

Mountain biking, hobby may pass,
old man venue gravely class.
Wide open paths, twisted and fun,
he took off first on Umstead run.

He bought a crappy Diamondback
from a store that knows that they’re Dick’s.
With his roof rack D.B. struggles,
Amazon bought, his brain’s boggled.

Two-thirds mile, asphalt’s beneath,
leads to first run that’s downhill steep.
Passed him on street, left him downhill;
I’m no bad-ass, got C+ skills.

Reedy Creek Trail flies by the lake,
right turn at T, ascent we take.
Intended route’s a figure eight,
going uphill here comes ride mate!

He’s looking proud passing me by
soon as he’s passed gas-tank runs dry.
He stays ahead tenth of a mile
come Turkey Creek nothing but smiles.

Turkey Creek Trail is hardest part,
got twists and turns, makes pumping heart.
Do quick head check before I drift
make sure I don’t cause some short shrift.

Age-mate shadow, sun’s seemed to set;
nowhere around, behind ears wet.
Leave Turkey Trail, up Cedar Ridge
get my feet wet, creek’s got no bridge.

Swiveled my head just like an owl
where the man was there’s no one now.
Where I turned left must have gone straight
ought’ta see him ‘fore ride abates.

I’m going fast, at least for me,
averaging a decent speed.
Finished twelve miles, just one to go
who do I spy? Former shadow.

He’s heading south, I’m going north,
we both turn west to uphill course.
Saw in his eyes when me he spied
he’s determined finish first ride.

Cross over bridge Reedy Creek Lake
shifts lowest gear, rookie mistake.
His cadence high, triple digits
no way he’ll make a quick ascent.

Body language read from behind
dude’s suffering, it’s blow-up time.
Literally pulls into weeds,
smile as I pass cocky rookie.

Started the duel when round him flew,
was not intent, what can I do?
He’s got ego body can’t cash,
hope he had fun; I had a blast.

Image may contain: bicycle and outdoor

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